


A Fate Worse Than Death

by MizJoely



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 14:07:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been kidnapped by a group of crazed cultists with but one aim in mind...Virgin Sacrifice! Molly Hooper to the rescue! Slight Mycroft bashing, Anthea's true identity hinted at, and various bits of nonsense. Sherlolly as always.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kidnapped!

**Author's Note:**

> This bit of insanity was conceived by me but brainstormed with Nocturnias (thanks!) and has been a blast to write. All resemblances to fan writers living or dead is purely intentional. Kudos to anyone who guesses all the guest appearances correctly! (Hint: All names are based on fanfiction.net aliases)

**Prologue: The Prophecy**

“Are you sure?”

A regal nod greeted the excited question. “Absolutely. It's this solstice eve. The power released from the event will be enormous, like nothing else in a hundred years. We're the fortunate ones; of all our sisters, we get to be the ones to release and claim the power.”

The first speaker, a dark blonde with a husky accent that identified her as being from the American south, frowned. “But the sacrifice...it has to be someone special. Not some sweet young thing who's barely left his mama's tit. Plus,” she added practically, “we could get in real trouble if we tried it with a kid. Where are we going to find a full grown man who meets all the requirements on such short notice?”

The older woman smiled. “Oh, I have the perfect victim in mind,” she said smugly. “The brother of an old...friend...of mine. Who happens to think sex is a waste of time, says the body is just transport and that only the mind matters. He's taken all that lovely energy of his and used it to hone his intellect. Aside from a bit of minor experimentation in uni, he's as pure as the driven snow.”

The American grinned. “Awesome! So when do we grab him?”

Her enthusiastic words were met with a disapproving frown. “We don't 'grab' him, Queen of the Night,” she said chastisingly, using the younger woman's cult title as per custom. “We get him to come to us willingly...at least, at first.” A slow smile spread across her face, one that the other woman met. “The prophecy says that's the first step. No matter if he changes his mind, if he comes to us of his own volition and meets all other criteria, then the sacrifice can take place.”

'Queen of the Night' laughed and clapped her hands. “Oh, Auntie Draco, I can hardly wait! I know you have some outstandingly clever plan in mind, right?”

“You have no idea,” the older woman replied. The gleam in her eye did not bode well for her intended victim or his brother – her real target in all of this.

After all, no one dumped Auntie Draco and got away with it.

**London – Six Months After Sherlock's Return**

“Sherlock's been kidnapped.”

Molly sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. “Again? How many times does this make?”

“Seven, but who's counting?” Mycroft Holmes offered her his usual reptilian smile, but this time there was something lurking behind his eyes, something that looked an awful lot like real concern. 

“And you're telling me this because...?” Molly wasn't nearly as uncaring as she sounded, but honestly, these kidnappings were getting old. People who just wanted to prove they were smarter than the detective who'd faked his own death and returned to the world of the living in time to foil an assassination attempt by Jim Moriarty's last remaining lieutenant, Sebastian Moran. Sherlock had escaped each time within hours of his disappearance, and Molly just couldn't find it in her to worry any more when he thought it was funny.

Funny! The first time she'd nearly lost her mind when John had called her, frantic with worry, to warn her that Sherlock had been snatched away from their Baker Street flat by an armed gunman who'd threatened harm to anyone close to Sherlock if they tried to find him. Then the bloody prat had simply strolled into her morgue two hours later, nearly giving her a heart attack. She'd made a fool of herself, throwing herself into his arms and sobbing and coming very near to kissing him in her relief.

She'd been mortified when he explained the truth of the matter: he hadn't been taken by someone seeking revenge for Moriarty's death or to try and harm him, only by some idiot trying to show how smart he was. Sherlock had been smug and Molly had nearly slapped him for taking her concerns – and John's – so lightly.

The next time it happened she'd still been frantic, but when a chortling Sherlock entered the Path lab with John hard on his heels, she'd felt a combination of relief and fury to find it was just more of the same – and that he was treating it as lightly as the first time. “Really, Molly, I don't know why you're so upset,” he'd had the nerve to drawl when she tried to express her feelings. “This one didn't even have a gun.”

Now, this marked the seventh such ridiculous attempt and she was tired of it all. Sherlock, on the other hand, treated each kidnapping as a chance to exercise not only his brilliance but also his escape artists' abilities, and even John had started acting like it was all some great joke. She was a bit disappointed in him but would never say so aloud, especially since she still felt guilty about keeping Sherlock's secret the entire two years he'd been 'dead' to everyone but her and Mycroft.

And here it was, another ludicrous kidnapping, with the added bonus of Mycroft Holmes invading her lab to tell her about it...wait, that was wrong, why was Mycroft bothering to tell her about it? And why in person?

When she finally voiced those questions his gaze sharpened. “I was wondering how long it would take you to realize that this time is different, Dr. Hooper,” he said. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a piece of paper and held it out to her. She moved close enough to take it, eyes automatically scanning the document before flying up to meet his in an expression of alarm.

“Oh, they – they've actually taken him, someone's actually taken him who means it? What's all this about a cult and a prophecy? I don't under...oh,” she said, as sudden realization dawned.

“Yes, 'oh' indeed,” was Mycroft's dry retort. “The very same cult that has been trying to recruit you into its ranks for the past six months is responsible for my brother's kidnapping. Which puts you in a very unique position, I'm afraid.”

She gave him a blank stare as her mind raced, all humor gone at the thought of Sherlock in the hands of a bunch of fanatical female Bacchus-worshipers. “A unique position to do what?”

Mycroft's smile was back to its normal insincerity. “Why, to infiltrate them, of course. To find my brother, report on his whereabouts, and await extraction by me and my men.”

With an audible gulp, Molly found herself agreeing to do just that. She also found herself agreeing to have a subcutaneous transponder implanted in her left buttock – sitting wouldn't activate it, she'd been assured, only a very firm squeeze, and really it was the safest, most logical place to have it, didn't she know – a passive device that wouldn't show up on scanners until activated. 

“Why does it have to be passive?” she asked.

Mycroft's bureaucratic mask slipped just a bit; she stared, fascinated by the sight of Sherlock's elder brother actually looking...uncomfortable. She wished she had her phone handy, because no one would ever believe her without photographic evidence of some kind. “The cult does not allow personal electronics of any kind inside their hallowed walls,” he finally replied. “No phones, no cameras, no camera phones, nothing. They scan all newcomers...”

“Wait,” Molly interrupted him with her hand raised, palm out as if it was necessary to physically stop him. “How do you know all this?” She gulped. “Have you tried to infiltrate them before? What – what happened to your other spies?”

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes ceilingward. “Certainly nothing to dramatic as you are clearly imagining, Dr. Hooper. No one was killed, of that I can assure you.”

“Then what?” Molly pressed, not really reassured by his words; there was an awful lot of ground that could be covered by 'not killed.'

He tried to stare her down, but she wasn't having any of it. “Look, Mr. Holmes, this is your brother's life we're talking about here. And mine, which may not mean very much to you but does to me. I can hardly help rescue him if I'm tortured or imprisoned myself, can I? I need to know exactly what I might be facing.” She gave him her fiercest scowl, knowing it was about as effective as a child's pout by the way his lips twitched before settling back into a neutral expression.

“They weren't harmed,” he finally replied, sounding a bit sulky in spite of his momentary (she believed) expression of humor. “They were simply returned to me.” Molly raised an eyebrow, crossed her arms, and waited. “Fine,” Mycroft said with a scowl of his own (much more effective than hers; the Holmes brothers certainly had that expression down to a science). “They were returned to me, erm, left on the steps of my office, actually. Tied and gagged, with 'Nice try, Mikie' inked on their foreheads.”

Molly couldn't help the giggle that escaped her lips, not even when Mycroft's scowl deepened. “I can assure you, Dr. Hooper, it was no laughing matter.” Face turning a bit pink, he mumbled: “They were also stark naked. My wife was...not amused.”

“No, I imagine she wouldn't be,” Molly managed to say with a straight face.

Of course, she once again dissolved into giggles when Mycroft added, somewhat pensively: “My sons, however, seemed to find the entire situation...rather intriguing. They're 12 and 14,” he added when Molly appeared ready to collapse in laughter. “Not an appropriate age to be exposed to such things, I can assure you.”

That did it; Molly actually did collapse onto her seat, burying her head on the counter as her shoulders shook with laughter. “Exposed is right!” she lifted her head to gasp out.

Mycroft's disapproving glare reminded her of the seriousness of the moment, and she was able to get herself back under control as she agreed to do as he'd asked and contact the woman who'd been pestering her via text message to join her esoteric little cult.


	2. Initiated

Two days later, Molly Hooper, pathologist and member of the exclusive club of 'Friends of Sherlock Holmes,' found herself a member of a very different organization: 'The Sisterhood of Bacchus.' Sherlock's kidnappers.

Mycroft's dossier on the group had been somewhat sparse and lacking in details. On surface it was just another bunch of whacko cultists who'd decided to revive the long-dead worship of a long-dead mythological Roman god. During the previous decade of the group's existence, their activities had been limited to what amounted to uni student-level escapades: public drunkness, coupled with public indecency (apparently dancing naked in fountains was part of their way of worshiping their chosen god), and the occasional disorderly conduct and resisting arrest thrown in for good measure.

However, all that changed once the year 2000 rolled around, as if the millennium had some significance to the cult members – or at least, to the cult leadership. That was when the abductions had begun: young men, mostly uni students, mostly majoring in computer sciences and accounting, mostly spotty and terminally incapable of growing proper facial hair.

The conclusion Molly had first leapt to when she read the phrase 'virgin sacrifice' was, in her defense, a natural one; she expected the next part of the file to consist of autopsy reports, could clearly picture abdominal stab wounds from antique bronze or possibly even stone daggers...but no. Instead, every single victim had been found within two weeks of being taken, drugged and dazed and showing clear signs of, as one of Mycroft's agents put it, 'having been thoroughly shagged.' 

Although it was hardly a fate worse than death, Molly agreed with Mycroft when he said he doubted his brother would be as forgiving as the other young men had been – none of whom had agreed to press charges, and several of whom had desperately attempted to make their way back to the cult as soon as the government was done questioning them about their 'ordeals'. No, Sherlock probably didn't value his virginity as some sort of sign of his purity – she knew that it was much more likely that the only reason he'd retained such a state for this long was because of his stated insistence that the body was merely transport for the mind – but he wouldn't want it forcibly taken from him, either.

And if drugs were involved...well, Molly knew from painful personal experience that Sherlock on drugs was not a pretty sight. And she also had a sneaking suspicion that the only way the cultists would get him to participate in their wretched 'ceremony' would be if he were, indeed, drugged to the gills.

That reason alone would have been enough to get her to agree to Mycroft's plan, but the whole thing about the prophecy nagged at her. Just because the spies had been returned relatively unharmed, and just because the previous 'victims' (who certainly gave no signs of identifying themselves that way) had only been coerced into sex (again, not that they called it that), didn't mean that the prophecy couldn't have changed things.

After she'd undergone the extensive (although thankfully non intrusive) scan Mycroft had warned her about, she'd had her mobile confiscated (supposedly temporarily), but was allowed to retain her other possessions. Which, since she'd been instructed to bring nothing other than her purse and any personal 'feminine items' she might require during her one-month stay in the main compound, wasn't much.

The main compound at this time was located just outside of London, although she was advised that it frequently changed in order to keep the 'non-believers' from interfering with them. Molly played the starry-eyed infatuated innocent, agreeing that of _course_ it made sense and of _course_ she didn't mind and of _course_ she could live without her mobile for a mere thirty days.

With any luck, Sherlock would turn out to be here rather than at one of their mysterious other locations; if he was, then Mycroft and the others would be able to reach them fairly quickly once she activated her tracking device.

He'd been missing for nearly a week now. Mycroft had done something behind the scenes, arranged for Molly to take an indefinite leave of absence from Bart's, and simultaneously sent John off on a wild goose chase somewhere in Wales just to give the poor man something to do besides go quietly potty while his friend was missing. Mycroft had very thoughtfully sent along his PA 'Anthea' to keep John company – the woman's actual name was Mary something or other Molly couldn't remember, although she thought it started with an 'M' – which John had appeared to appreciate very much.

She was done with her initiation – which had turned out to be much less of a trial than she'd feared, no attempts at brainwashing besides some rather enthusiastic 'rah-rah-Bacchus-rules' sort of speeches from various ladies – and was headed for her new room. She had her arms full of her new, cult-approved clothing – some pretty blouses and denim trousers to be worn beneath god-awful pink 'ceremonial robes' – and on her way to her assigned billet when she was accosted by an older woman, somewhere in her fifties if Molly was any judge of age, stick thin and with a startling shock of candy-floss-pink hair peeking beneath her clashing hood. 

“Name?” the older woman snapped. 

When Molly started to respond, her lips already forming the 'M', her inquisitor held up one hand imperiously. “Not your real name, you silly chit! Your CULT name!”

Molly who had been about to give her real name since, after all, they already knew who she was, instead found herself stuttering out the best pseudonym she could manage under the circumstances: “Mo...Jo. Mojo,” she repeated, more confidently this time. “It's Mojo.” Why hadn't one of the other girls told her she was supposed to take on a new cult name? Why hadn't it been part of her initiation, for that matter?

That seemed to be enough to satisfy the stately lady who'd accosted her. “Very good,” she said approvingly. She gave Molly a sharp look before releasing her arm. “You're not married, are you? We have strict rules about that, don't you know. No married ladies on the premises, muddies things up too much!”

Right, Molly thought, somewhat dazedly as she shook her head no, indicating her marital status as 'single'. Because kidnapping men in order to force them into sex was a situation that shouldn't be muddied up by married ladies participating.

As the other woman marched off, Molly realized two things: one, that the woman had been one of the head 'cheerleaders' at the initiation ceremony she and the three other new cult members had been subjected to – and two, her cult name of 'Auntie Draco' was well chosen.

oOo

Two days later she'd managed to scope out the entire complex and was discouraged to find that there wasn't any part of it she was forbidden to explore, from basement (smelly, moldy, and full of spiders) to attic (cold, drafty and full of even more spiders). No hidden doors, no secret rooms, nothing but a bunch of cheerful, bright-eyed (mostly British, although there was a couple of Americans and one Australian or New Zealander – Ladley, she called herself – in the bunch) ladies, most around her age, some slightly older, even one or two closing in on grandmotherly.

For a cult, it was oddly unstructured; yes, she wasn't allowed to leave the complex during her 'initiation period', but other than having a schedule of rotating household duties (cooking, cleaning, yardwork, spider-crushing), she was pretty much free to do as she wished.

She'd expected to be surrounded by a bunch of brainwashed idiots, and to have to fight off efforts to do the same to her, but to her befuddlement, no such thing happened. The women seemed pleasant and rather normal – even the husky-voiced American who went by the rather grandiose name 'Queen of the Night-with-an-n-not-a-k'. Or so Molly privately referred to her, after she'd introduced herself the first time in that very manner.

Time passed, and within the first week she'd gotten to know the other cult members at the complex fairly well. What she did not discover, unfortunately, was any sign of where Sherlock was being held.

She found herself frequently sharing kitchen duties with a red-head who called herself Bose Badadig (“It's Czech for something a bit naughty, pass the marmite, please”) and, as it turned out, loved to bake as much as Molly did. Her most frequent work companions consisted of Bose and two others: a rather enthusiastic young uni student (“Taking the summer off and this seemed like a really fun way to spend it!”) named Mormeg, and a woman about the same age as Molly who went by 'Broomyhilda' (“Cause she's an awesome kickass comic strip character, that's why!”), all of whom seemed bent on making Molly feel at home amongst them.

By the end of the second week, in spite of the other's friendliness (and the really major inroads they'd made on decreasing the spider population), Molly was ready to tear her hair out because of her lack of progress. Oh, she'd easily be able to identify the cult members, but since she hadn't seen them do anything illegal and had heard absolutely nothing about Sherlock no matter how many conversations she eavesdropped on, that was useless intel. 

She fretted over Sherlock almost constantly; was he being fed properly, had they drugged him, was he chained up in some medieval dungeon? Were his guards abusing him, beating him, pulling his glorious hair, touching his naked body...oh dear. That last wasn't what she'd meant to wonder at all. Good thing she was in bed with all the lights out or else her red cheeks would definitely give her away.

That comforting thought was ripped away seconds later as the door to her room burst open and her light was flicked on. She sat up, staring at the intruder, recognizing her after a moment as the other American, AnglyFive (“Like 'Anglophile', get it?”), who'd joined at the same time Molly had. She was jumping up and down excitedly. “Oh, it's time to move, MoJo! Finally! We get to join the others! Quick, get dressed, grab your things, and be by the main gate in ten! Whoo hoo!” Then she was gone, leaving Molly staring after her for a long moment before it finally penetrated that maybe – just maybe – this meant they were going to wherever Sherlock was being held.

Ten minutes later she was at the main gate as ordered (well, it was hardly an order coming from AnglyFive's lips, but still...), waiting in the queue with the others, while Queen of the Night-with-an-n-not-a-k bustled around with a clipboard and a pencil, checking off names as if she didn't already know everyone in the complex – there were only fifteen of them, after all.

She was standing between Bose Badadig and BroomyHilda, both of whom were grinning and chatting in the sort of verbal shorthand long-time friends always developed. “Did you--” “I did! And did you--” “I did! But really, weren't you--” “Yeah, a bit, but ooh! It's--” “Yeah, it totally is!”

After a few minutes of this – with Molly politely smiling at her two excited companions, BroomyHilda finally stopped and seemed to take in the fact that she and Bose Badadig were perhaps being a bit rude. “Sorry, MoJo! We're just so excited! This is a once in a lifetime experience, you know! With the prophecy and all! Aren't you just thrilled? You're so lucky to be here, now, instead of ten years from now or ten years ago...sorry, babbling! Excited,” she explained (unnecessarily) with a laugh.

“Right, the solstice, the prophecy...oh, wait, sorry!” Bose Badadig exclaimed, looking embarrassed. “We're not supposed to alk-tay about the ophecy-pray!” she said in a stage whisper. “Not till we get to Undisclosed Location Number...72, is it?” she asked BroomyHilda, who nodded confirmation. “Right, not till we get there.”

“Blindfold the new girls!” Queen of the Night-with-an-n-not-a-k barked out – really, Molly thought, somewhat disgruntled at the prospect of being blindfolded, not to mention being shouted at for no reason – that American really had missed her calling when she went for 'Evil Cult Leader' instead of 'Dominatrix.'

She sighed, grit her teeth, and endured it when BroomyHilda apologetically whipped out a (of course) bright pink handkerchief and tied it carefully over Molly's eyes. Bose Badadig was doing the same for AnglyFive and the Queen herself was blindfolding Mormeg. Neither of those two, Molly noted sourly, seemed at all put out. In fact, they were treating this all like some grand adventure, when really it was nothing but evil. Evil, evil, evil, to take Sherlock prisoner just because he was a virgin. Untouched by anyone, man or woman, if they were going with a strict definition of the term. Completely pure, ready for the right woman to show him the ways of love...ugh, there she was, her inner teenager, fantasizing when she should be studying Latin or something.

They arrived at their destination some time later. Molly estimated it at an hour, but it was difficult to be sure with no way of checking and her eyes covered. Plus she was mildly motion-sick, and stumbled off the bus when her blindfold was removed, sucking in the fresh air (not in the city, then) and waiting for the dizziness to pass.

Since it was the middle of the night and no lights had been lit to show them the way, they stumbled a bit as they were led inside the building. Molly made a mental note to really check the place out in the daytime, hoping the security would be as lax as it had been at HQ – but not holding her breath. Because if this was, indeed, where Sherlock was being kept, then of course there would be stricter schedules and less downtime. Especially if Her Majesty was left in charge. She really missed Auntie Draco, who'd gone off on some other mission or other a few days earlier...oh, well, perhaps _this_ was her mission, since the woman herself was there to greet the newcomers.

By her side was a woman Molly hadn't seen before, whose nom du cult was apparently 'Dipplit' which she didn't bother to explain the way the others had, just stood there looking all mysterious and haughty as she explained that the schedule had been moved up a bit because of course the summer solstice wasn't the one imposed on them by the modern calendar, but was actually calculated based on some obscure system Molly had never heard of before.

Before she could stop herself, she found herself interrupting the other woman to say: “But I thought the solstice was the shortest day of the year, rather than calendar based?”

That earned her a glower and a brief lecture on how the astronomers had got it wrong and how newcomers really should learn to keep their traps shut. That had lead to Auntie Draco lecturing the other woman on being patient with said newcomers, which in turn lead to a rather involved conversation Molly couldn't quite follow – especially when Auntie Draco said “well at least I didn't make her think she was someone else just so you could make sure she got knocked up” and Dipplit shot back with “Yeah, but at least I let him be molested by someone who actually loved him!”

The group was hurried out of the room as the two women continued to shout at one another. Molly wondered what on earth they were talking about, then decided she'd rather not know. At least it had nothing to do with her.


	3. Rescued?

The next day she discovered two things about her new residence – it was a walled compound somewhere in the countryside, and Sherlock was definitely being kept here.

She discovered the first through the simple expedient of asking, and the second....well, through pretty much the same way, actually.

It boggled her mind, how trusting these women were...unless, of course, she wasn't expected to ever leave the cult. That was a sobering thought, made even more sobering when she saw that Auntie Draco had taken to wearing an ornate silver dagger tucked into the top of her left boot. When Molly asked what it was for, the older woman simply patted her on the head and gave a vague smile before answering: “Oh, well, you'll see. On the Solstice.”

Which, according to the new schedule, was only two nights from now.

It didn't give her much time to suss out the guard schedule, but she would just have to do her best.

She considered alerting Mycroft to Sherlock's location by activating her tracking device, but remembered what he'd impressed upon her: no activation until confirmation. Confirmation of Sherlock's actual, physical presence. Even being told that yes, 'the sacrifice' was on premises, didn't necessarily mean that Sherlock was the sacrifice in question – what if the cult leaders had decided to go for a twofer, what if that was what this vague prophecy actually entailed?

No, there were too many unanswered questions for Molly to take the chance of contacting Mycroft before she had, as instructed, physically confirmed Sherlock's presence on site. Her gut told her she was right, but she had spent most of her life not trusting that particular organ, since it had betrayed her nearly as often as her highly unreliable heart. Not only had it led her to fall for a psychopathic serial killer, but it had also led her to married men, sexual deviants, and, possibly most damaging of all, to Sherlock Holmes himself. The man who might think of her as a friend now that she'd help save his life, but still ran screaming (in a refined, posh sort of manner) if she even hinted at an interest in him beyond the platonic.

Well, she thought to herself grumpily as she set about peeling potatoes with Bose Badadig, if he'd actually shown the proper gratitude she'd hoped for when he hid out in her flat (honestly, would it have been so hard for him to offer up a single night of what she just _knew_ would have been mindblowing sex in return for her helping him fake his suicide?) he might not have found himself in this predicament in the first place. It was the twenty-first century, for goodness sakes, who sacrificed virgins to pagan gods these days?

She sighed. The cult she belonged to, obviously. Else why would she be here in the first place? Peeling potatoes and killing spiders...and it was all Sherlock bloody Holmes's fault. Oh, when she saw him she was going to give him a piece of her mind...

“Oh, damn!” she exclaimed, dropping the potato she'd been (not terribly successfully, as it turned out) peeling into the sink and snatching up her hand. Which she'd just sliced open with the paring knife (also dropped into the sink). She grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her palm, while Bose Badadig clucked and tsked and (after shutting off the water), brought her over to the first-aid kit and bandaged her up. Molly declined (politely, without making a face or anything) the offer of a slice of toast with marmite and a cup of tea, and tried desperately to think of anything but the solstice night so fast approaching.

The sight of the blood on her hand reminded her that it wasn't just Sherlock's virginity that was at stake, but possibly his life as well.

Time for her to stop floundering and come up with a really, really clever plan to save him.

oOo

In the end, it all came down to luck rather than planning. Which, when Molly allowed herself to think about after it was all over, was probably just as well, since her planning skills seemed to be somewhere between mediocre and non-existent.

She'd found the building in the compound that had to be where Sherlock was being held, as it was the only one with a guard on duty. Not outside, but inside, near the only locked door – not just the only locked door in the building, but in the entire complex, as far as Molly could tell.

_Okay, Molly,_ she told herself after being politely told by the young guard (“Moudi, but not like m-o-o-d-y cause I'm actually pretty even tempered, according to my folks!”) that no, she didn't need any help, _you've found him. He's here. Time to activate the tracking device._

It was the afternoon of the solstice. No time to lose.

So of course, she had exactly zero time to herself to herself after she left Moudi. No privacy for the requisite buttcheek-squeezing to be done. Not even time to excuse herself and use the ladies' as the entire compound erupted into a frenzy of preparations, seemingly seconds after Molly exited the building housing Sherlock's cell.

By the time she could so much as take a breath, it seemed, it was late afternoon, nearly dusk. The sacrifice was scheduled, so she and the rest of the cultists had been informed, for eight o'clock sharp. Auntie Draco had grinned and fondled her dagger when she made the announcement, and Queen of the Night-with-an-n-not-a-k had looked positively fiendish and Molly knew she had to do something, quickly, or it would be too late.

“So, um, has anyone brought the sacrfice's guard her dinner yet?” she asked Bose Badadig as they put the finishing touches on the soup. She knew the answer was, fortunately, 'no' as she she'd already spied the covered tray sitting on the counter. Now or never, seize the moment, damn the torpedoes – no, wait that last was American, wasn't it? She needed to be a bit more patriotic.

Bose's red hair had started coming down from its braid, and she shoved a few strands out of her face as she looked up at the kitchen clock and frowned. “No, damn, I forgot! MoJo, would you mind...” She gestured vaguely toward the covered tray, her attention back on the pot of soup she was stirring. “And grab me the salt, will you? This thing is way too bland!”

Molly did as the other woman asked, then grabbed the covered tray set aside for Moudi and scampered out the door before Bose could change her mind.

She missed the slight smile the other woman sent her way as she left the kitchen.

oOo

Molly closed the door and locked it as quietly as she could while balancing the tray on her hip; no point in warning Moudi that something might be up. She debated setting the covered dish down and finally activating the stupid tracking device, but hesitated too long; Moudi's face was peering around the corner, and her eyes lit up as she saw Molly. “Oh, MoJo, hey! Thanks! I'm starving!”

“Coming!” Molly sang out, moving carefully down the hall; there was a bowl of soup on the tray, she knew, and she didn't want to spill it...or did she?

Like a flash a plan came to mind. Not a particularly clever plan, but the best she could do under the circumstances. And she had to do something fast; the others would be coming for Sherlock before too long, she needed to get him out of his cell and hopefully out of the building before Auntie Draco and her scary-ass dagger showed up.

She rounded the corner at a deliberately hurried pace, managed to trip over nothing, and very luckily tipped the tray so that the entire contents, soup and all, poured down the front of Moudi's pink robe. “Oh, I'm so clumsy!” Molly gasped as the other girl yelped and jumped back – too late to prevent the mess from covering her from chest to ankles. “I'm so sorry!” Molly dabbed ineffectively at the mess with the paper serviette. “The loo is just down the hall, isn't it? Come on, let me clean you up!”

Giving the younger woman no time to protest, Molly grabbed her by the wrist and nearly dragged her the hundred feet to the loo. Once inside, she realized she was still holding the metal tray. But before she could set it down, Moudi had turned to face her, suspicion narrowing her dark eyes into slits. “You did that on purpose! Why?” Her eyes widened and she took a step back as she gasped: “Oh! You're one of them, one of Mycroft's spies!”

She opened her mouth to scream for help, and Molly did the only thing she could under the circumstances: She raised the metal tray and brought it down on the back of the other woman's head as she turned to face the door.

Molly stared down at Moudi's unconscious form through horrified eyes. “Oh my God, what have I done?” she moaned, still clutching the metal dinner tray in both hands. Then she shook herself; she'd done what needed to be done. Sherlock's life was in danger, not just his virginity, and this young girl was part of the group of fanatics who thought sacrificing him just because of some insane 'prophecy' was perfectly fine.

No, she had to stop them. She knelt down and checked, Moudi's pulse, even though she could clearly see that the other woman was breathing. A little fast, but nothing to indicate she'd have anything more than a wicked headache when she woke up.

Now, what to do with her, how to keep her from being discovered before Molly had the chance to signal Mycroft and get Sherlock free...her eyes roamed the loo, settling at last on the supply cupboard. She heaved the other woman's body over to it, opened the door, and shoved her inside. Then she closed the door and turned to go...before turning back, reopening the door, and groping for the clothesline coiled neatly on the shelf above her head. She managed to tie Moudi's hands and ankles, settled her as comfortably as she could make her under the circumstances, and carefully gagged her with a clean flannel and some twine she found after rummaging around a bit.

She stepped out of the bathroom a few minutes later, glancing cautiously up and down the hall. Good, no one was in sight. She raced to the locked door – then turned around and raced back to the loo, opened the cupboard, and rummaged frantically through Moudi's pockets until she found the set of keys she'd hoped the other woman would have. Then she repeated the whole door-opening-hall-peeking-frantic-running thing, ending up a bit breathless in front of Sherlock's prison.

With shaking fingers she tried three of the seven keys before finding the right one. The lock gave way, the handle turned, and she slipped into the room as quietly as possible. Then she winced and shut the door behind her as the keys dropped to the floor with a loud clatter.

The room was dark, the only light coming from the single window near the back. However, before she could do more than inch her way forward a few steps (nearly tripping over the bloody stupid effing keys), she heard a rustling noise from somewhere in front of her. She reached out with one hand, whispering: “Sher-ooph!”

Large hands seized her, pulled her down onto a springy surface (a bed?), one hand settling over her mouth and the other firmly grasping her wrists. “Whatever it is you madwomen want with me, I can assure you, madam, you will not find me a cooperative victim!”

Molly squirmed beneath Sherlock's body (ooh, his _entire_ body, covering hers, one leg between her thighs, his chest mashing into her breasts...fantasy come _true_ , her inner teenager swooned), twisting her head from side to side and trying to get his hand off her mouth so she could identify herself.

He pulled away with an abruptness that left her gaping, leaned across her body and switched on a light she now saw was sat on a low table by the head of the bed. “Molly. I thought that was you,” he said, as matter-of-factly as if he'd simply run across her in the morgue.

“Um, yeah, it's me,” she said weakly, offering up a tentative smile. “Surprise? Did you recognize my voice?” Although if he had, he wouldn't have needed to maul her so deliciously – er, with so much force...

“No, your breasts, actually,” he said as he sat up fully and scooted toward the foot of the bed. “And the shape of your lips,” he added as she just gaped at him in astonishment. “What, you don't think I take note of these things?” He smirked. “Do recall that I once identified a woman's body by, erm, not her face.”

The million and one reasons Sherlock's words made absolutely no sense raced through Molly's mind, but all that came out of her lips ( _he'd recognized their shape by slapping his hand over her mouth? _) was: “Oh? Um, Okay, then. So. Maybe we should, um, get you out of here?”__

__He had on no shirt, she finally realized. And his chest was exactly as she'd always pictured it: firm, muscular, lean, pale, and very nearly hairless. His nipples were rather large and a bit darker than she'd pictured them and...now was NOT the time for this. “Are your clothes in the cupboard?”_ _

__He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest, no doubt noticing exactly where she'd allowed her eyes to drift before speaking. “No, Molly, they took my clothes along with my shoes and other personal belongings out of the room when they first brought me here. Why did they bring me here, by the way?” he asked without pausing for breath. “No one will tell me; I've tried to deduce the reason, but the only one that make sense is also the one that makes the least amount of sense.”_ _

__“Um, what reason is that?” Molly asked him, hoping he hadn't actually deduced it...and that she wasn't going to have to be the one to explain it to him. God, please spare me that, she prayed silently as he leaned back against the iron-railed footboard and hauled the sheets and blanket up higher on his body._ _

__“For sexual intimacies, of course,” he replied, as coolly as if he'd just said 'to teach them the science of deduction' or 'to ask me for John's phone number.'_ _

__He cocked his head enquiringly while she tried not to blush. Well, that was clearly a lost cause, so she just nodded her head and tried to find the best way to explain it to him._ _

__“I thought so,” he said in satisfied tones. “The only question is, am I expected to allow them all to avail themselves of my services or just a chosen few?” He frowned. “Even with the assistance of performance-enhancing drugs, the first option would take a considerable amount of time, as I estimate their – sorry, I should say 'your' since you are clearly a trusted member of this group at the moment, no doubt at Mycroft's behest – numbers at somewhere in the low twenties.”_ _

__“Uh,” was the best Molly could manage for a few seconds. She blinked rapidly, shook her head to clear it of the sudden vision she had of her fellow cultists lined up outside Sherlock's door in a queue, tabs in their hands, and Auntie Draco calling out each number and taking the tickets before allowing each one to file in. “No, it's not...well, yes, it's that, but there's more, some kind of prophecy, all about the solstice and the release of power so it's not just, um, sex, but I think they actually – the leader, the one they call Auntie Draco, she has a dagger, and she goes on about the druids all the time so I think...”_ _

__“You think they intend to kill me even though their previous victims were all released alive and relatively well?”_ _

__Molly was tired of gaping at him like a fish, so she snapped her mouth shut, huffed out a breath, then glared at him. “I thought you didn't know why they were holding you captive.”_ _

__He had the nerve to smirk at her. “Well, I didn't know for certain until you confirmed it that I'd been taken captive by the same group of fanatics who've spent the past thirteen years kidnapping male virgins, but I had my suspicions. However, I have been here much longer than any of their previous victims. So I began to doubt. However, since their methods have escalated it should come as no surprise to find that they've changed their modus operandi yet again. Shouldn't you be unlocking me?” he added, once again without either taking a breath or otherwise signaling a change of subject._ _

__“Unlocking you? But you're not...oh,” Molly said as Sherlock hauled the covers away from his left ankle, revealing the fact that he was chained to the bed. “Oh, the keys,” she added as she remembered how she'd gotten access to the room in the first place. “Right. I'll just,” she gestured vaguely toward the door and the keys she'd dropped, “get the keys.”_ _

__She rose to her feet and managed not to trip over her robes (God, that shade of pink really was awful, so bright and cheerful and freaking GIRLY) as she grabbed up the keys. She brought them over to Sherlock, who merely stuck his foot out and looked bored as he waited for her to unlock him. And waited, and waited..._ _

__“Let me guess,” he said with a sigh. “There's no key on that ring that fits.”_ _

__“Um, no,” Molly admitted, gazing at him with a bit of panic. “They'll be here in an hour to take you to 'the place of sacrifice', wherever that is. Oh!” she exclaimed, interrupting herself, embarrassed that she'd almost forgotten about activating the tracking device. She stood up, reached behind herself, and gave her left buttcheek a firm squeeze._ _

__Nothing happened. Mortified at the look of astonished puzzlement Sherlock was giving her, she tried again. “Damn! I can't...Sherlock, I hate to ask but...” A nervous titter escaped her lips before she could stop herself. “Sorry! Sorry, it's just...there's a tracking device, and I need to...” She mimed squeezing with both hands... “To activate it? And I...can't. Would you mind?” Blushing furiously, she turned around, first shrugging her cult robe off her shoulders and allowing it to fall to the floor._ _

__She felt very self-conscious, even though she was modestly dressed beneath the robe, in a mint-green blouse that fit her better than her usual clothes, and a pair of charcoal gray summerweight linen trousers that also fit her much better than her usual baggy khakis. Hmm, on second thought, the clothes weren't all that modest compared to her own wardrobe. Still, needs must when the devil drives, and man was the devil driving tonight!_ _

__The feel of two large, warm hands on her backside caused her to jump a bit, letting out another startled squeak. “Do keep still, Molly,” Sherlock's voice came from behind her – a very cross voice at that. “I can't do this properly with you wiggling about like that!”_ _

__Then he gave a firm squeeze, and to Molly's relief she heard and felt the slight click that indicated success._ _

__Sherlock's hands, however, were lingering on her posterior, almost as if he were reluctant to let her go. Which was utter nonsense, of course, unless they actually had drugged him...no, he showed no other signs or symptoms and there was no drug Molly was aware of that increased sexual interest without affecting the higher reasoning functions of the brain...and Sherlock had clearly demonstrated his normal intellectual prowess to her._ _

__“Um, Sherlock?” she said after a few more seconds had passed, and his hands were still wrapped around her buttocks – one on each side now, rather than both on the left, occasionally giving little squeezes and tugs as if he were conducting some sort of experiment on her arse's elasticity and density._ _

__“Hmm?” he asked, sounded a bit abstracted. She craned her head around and saw him gazing down at where his hands were touching her. “Problem, Molly?”_ _

__“Well, yes, I mean, no, not...um, is there something wrong? With my arse?”_ _

__“Hmm?” He looked up and released her with a last squeeze. “Just testing to see if there is a tactile difference between the two sides due to the presence of the tracking device, that's all.” But there was a suspicious twinkle in his eyes as he spoke, and Molly's gut said that he wasn't being entirely honest with her. “How long before my brother's minions come riding in to the rescue?” he asked before she could accuse him of...what, exactly? Excessive fondling of her butt? To complain about that would make her just about the biggest hypocrite in the world. The universe, even._ _

__“The device signals for an hour, and depending on where we are...well, it could take them more time than we have left, actually,” Molly admitted in a small voice. Some rescue party she was; she should have activated the stupid tracking device yesterday...well, no, since she couldn't actually manage it on her own, then it would have made no difference. If she didn't know any better, she'd swear Mycroft had deliberately made it so that Sherlock would have to help her. Well, it would be one way of ensuring that Molly followed his directions exactly, but she couldn't really picture Sherlock's stuffy older brother pulling what was essentially a schoolboy prank like that._ _

__Sherlock was frowning as Molly sat next to him on the bed, for lack of anything more constructive to do. Moudi had no more keys on her person, which meant that one of the other cultists – Auntie Draco or Dipplit or Queen of the Night-with-an-n-not-a-k – had it. It made sense; if Sherlock had been able to overpower his guard (and goodness Moudi was a tiny little thing so that such an event wouldn't surprise Molly in the least) then he'd still have been a prisoner._ _

__Molly bent down to look at the legs of the bed; perhaps there was a way to use the keys or the flatware from the dinner tray to try and prise apart the bolts holding the bed together...but no. They were huge, clearly painted over...no. Plus Sherlock would have suggested it if it were worth trying..._ _

__“Well,” he said, clapping his hands together briskly and startling her as she snapped upright to face him. “There's only one thing for it then; we'll have to have sex.”_ _


	4. Deflowered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to the fabulous Nocturnias for inspiring the use of a certain pony-riding reference at the end of the chapter. :)

“What!?” Molly gaped at Sherlock as he reached out and began undoing the buttons to her blouse. She batted his hands away and jumped to her feet, only to have him sweep her legs out from under her so that she landed back on his bed with an “Oof!” as he knocked the breath out of her.

Then he knelt over her, the coverings falling away from him to reveal his entire lean form to her wide-eyed view, with no signs of self-consciousness on his part whatsoever. And why should he be, Molly thought, thoroughly distracted by the lovely sight of a naked Sherlock leaning over her; he had nothing to be ashamed of, every single inch of him pale and gorgeous and oh, look, his pubic hair was closer to the gingery color of his eyebrows than the dark locks on his head and his prick was...

Oh. Dear. LORD. He was hard. Sherlock Holmes was naked and leaning over her with an erection that literally made her mouth water, and he was unbuttoning her blouse and his hands were moving for the front clasp of her bra and...

“Sherlock! Wait, we can't...why do we have to...” She put her hands over his and wrenched her gaze to meet his with a physical effort – and his smug expression told her he knew exactly where she'd been so greedily staring.

“We have to do this, Molly, it's the only way,” he explained as his fingers moved away from her bra clasp (damn!) and instead tugged impatiently at the sleeves to her blouse. She allowed him to pull the garment from her body, watching with a faint feeling of disbelief as he tossed it to the floor and attacked the button and zip to her trousers. “If we wait for Mycroft's men to arrive, it'll be too late. If we render the sacrifice pointless, that should buy us enough time; there's bound to be a great deal of confusion and disorder if they come to fetch me and find us in the middle of...”

“Sherlock!” Molly practically howled his name as she tugged his hands away from where they'd begun hooking themselves into the waistband of her knickers, her momentary paralysis finally broken. “We can't....you don't mean...here?!? Now?!? With them about to walk in?”

He nodded and flashed her a rakish grin. “Right in the middle, if we're very lucky,” he said, sounding very satisfied with himself and his plan. “So there can be no doubting that the deed has been done.” He peered down at her with a slight frown. “You're not saying anything, why aren't you saying anything? Don't you agree it's the best way we have of stalling them until help arrives?” He gestured to his left ankle, still firmly manacled to the cast iron footboard of the bed. “Unless of course you have a means of removing this that you haven't shared with me.”

Molly shook her head, eyes wide as she once again took in his nude form. She damned herself for a weak-willed idiot when she found herself agreeing that of course his plan was the only viable one under the circumstances. And then immediately panicking when he leaned down to kiss her. “Wait, Sherlock, I don't think...”

He was frowning again, but at least he'd pulled back a bit as he did so, enough to give her some breathing room, which she very desperately wanted right now. “Please don't try to tell me you don't want to have sex with me, Molly, when we both know it's not true. And I must apologize for my disparaging remarks in the past regarding your breasts,” he added as his eyes focused on that part of her anatomy. “They are perfectly proportioned.”

But when he reached again for the clasp to her bra, her brain put the brakes on – but not before expressing relief that she was at least wearing a _pretty_ bra; a lacy pink one with a bow in the middle. And matching knickers; at least if she and Sherlock were about to... “But you don't want to, not with me!” she blurted out, years of unrequited passion for this man finally freeing up her vocal cords. “You never have, you just barely like me as a friend!” Although, that lovely erection was proving her wrong even as the words left her mouth, brushing against the top of her left thigh as he lowered himself so that he was once again covering her body with his.

His expression altered, just the tiniest bit, from focused and urgent to...no. That wasn't _guilt_ she was seeing, was it? Surely she was misreading him?

Apparently not. Sherlock cleared his throat and stilled the movements of his fingers as he knelt back up, ducking his head as a slight blush suffused those lovely cheekbones. “Well, that's, erm, not entirely true,” he mumbled. “I also appreciate you...as a, as a pathologist, you must know that,” he added more confidently. As if treading on safer ground than his previous confession had indicated. Changing his mind.

Molly was having none of it; she'd heard that bit of a stutter. She folded her arms across her chest and frowned up at him. “Is that really what you were about to tell me?” she demanded. “Or was there something else?”

Her heart was pounding in her chest, and she gazed up at him steadily, awaiting his answer. Because she might not be a deductive genius but she knew when someone was trying not to admit something.

He cleared his throat and looked away, then back at her. “I might not have chased away your previous boyfriends out of entirely unselfish motives.”

“I...uh...what?” 

Sherlock sighed and raked on hand through his hair. “Molly, please, is it necessary that we have this discussion right here and now? Wouldn't we be better advised to talk about my feelings for you after we've resolved our current predicament?”

Molly gaped at him, her mind finally latching onto the important part of what Sherlock had just said to her. “You have feelings? For me? Romantic feelings?” Then, in a near-whisper: “ _Sexual_ feelings?”

He rolled his eyes – but nodded. “Yes, all of the above, as you surely must have already observed by now, considering how frequently you sneak peeks at my groin! Now, Molly, do get on with ravishing me, if you don't mind? Time is a precious commodity at the moment, if you recall!”

He reached down to undo the front clasp of her bra, and this time, she didn't try to stop him.

She didn't try to stop anything he did after that, except once or twice when his enthusiasm was outmatched by his inexperience. Oh well, false starts and mishaps were bound to occur during a first-time sexual encounter, especially under such bizarre circumstances as they currently faced. And anyone could accidentally snap a brastrap into their cheek; at least he'd missed his eye.

Any mental complaints or giggles ended as soon as he latched onto her breast with his mouth, replaced entirely with incoherent thoughts of _God, he's good at this!_ and _Oh, that feels wonderful _and _I wonder if he'd be willing to....no, no time for that Molly, don't be greedy!___

__But when they got out of this? She was going to sit him down and teach him exactly what else he'd been missing. What he'd been missing and what she'd been missing as well, because if he was really a virgin, then damn, the man was _gifted_._ _

__It only took him one try to learn exactly how she liked her nipples to be suckled, to nip and suck them with exactly the right amount of pressure to turn her into a squirming, moaning mess. And it only took him about ten seconds to figure out how to slide his fingers inside her at exactly the right angle to bring her to the edge of orgasm._ _

__As for kissing – well, he was a natural at that, too. Of course he might have had some experience in that area; another question for another day. One when his tongue wasn't in her mouth and his hands weren't on her breasts and his cock wasn't sliding against her center and her hands weren't digging into his scalp and they weren't both moaning each other's names between the kisses..._ _

__“Molly,” Sherlock whispered._ _

__“Sherlock,” she moaned in response, sliding her tongue along the column of his elegant throat before closing her lips on it in order to suck a really dark mark right above his pulse, just a little something to say “Molly Hooper was here”..._ _

__“Molly,” Sherlock said again, his voice sounding a bit strangled – and louder. “Regrettably our hostesses don't appear to have provided us with any, uh....”_ _

__Her tongue in his ear, she'd discovered, was a very effective way of shutting him up. After giving a little nibble to the lobe of his ear, she said: “I've a birth control implant, Sherlock, and you know damn well that I haven't had sex since before you jumped off the roof of St. Bart's. And unless you've been lying this entire time and aren't really a virgin, then I don't think we have anything to worry about.”_ _

__Then she stuck her tongue in his other ear and not another word was spoken that wasn't a sign of assent or a cry to a higher deity. For exactly fourteen additional minutes, as Sherlock later informed her. At which point Molly was riding him like the pony she'd never gotten for Christmas, to coin a phrase, with Sherlock's hands digging into her hips and his head arched on his neck and a stream of “Oh God's” coming from both their lips. Then one hand groped its way up her body and latched onto her breast and squeezed and Molly cried out his name as her climax shook her from head to tightly-curled toes..._ _

__...and of course, right on cue, just as Sherlock arched his body against her and joined her in reaching the apex of physical pleasure, the door opened._ _


	5. Busted

“What the hell – MoJo!! What have you done?”

Molly, still coming down from the high of her first ever Sherlock-bestowed orgasm, could only manage enough energy for a glare as she reluctantly rolled off Sherlock's sweaty, gorgeous, sticky, lickable, amazing, not-enough-adjectives-in-the-world-to-describe-it body. She grabbed the sheet and covered the two of them while her heart slowed back to normal and her breathing eased into somewhat less of a labored pant.

Sherlock, meanwhile, seemed to have recovered quite fully, certainly well enough to prop himself up on one elbow and begin lecturing the intruder – Queen Night-with-an-n-not-a-k, who had moved right up to the bed and was glaring down at the pair of them with murder in her eyes.

Sherlock, it would seem, was giving it right back to her, countering her “how could you do this” with a “I do seem to recall being the injured party here” only to be countered by a snarky “you're not looking particularly 'injured' at the moment, Mr. Holmes” to which he riposted “the chain on my ankle would argue otherwise, Madame.”

Finally Molly had had enough. She jumped to her feet, causing the other woman to start and move nervously backwards, apparently remembering that Molly, unlike Sherlock, was in no way constrained from moving about the room.

She quickly stood her ground, however, apparently remembering that she was taller than Molly and outweighed the tiny pathologist by at least twenty pounds. Hands on hips, she glared at her erstwhile 'cult-sister.' “What made you think it would be a good idea to sample the goods, sugah?” The woman's American accent deepened with every outraged word. “Ya'll have no idea who you're messing with! Auntie Draco's gonna be so pissed!”

Sparing only a moment to wonder why the older woman getting drunk was something Molly should view as a threat, Molly immediately went on the offensive. “Oh, really? I have no idea who I'm messing with?” She jabbed a finger into the other woman's pink robe-covered chest, causing her to flinch involuntarily. “I'm a bloody St. Bart's pathologist, you stupid bint; there isn't anything I don't know about anatomy and how to cause pain, and if you don't let us go now, you're going to be my first victim!”

“And my brother and his men are on their way as well, as we've activated Molly's tracking device,” came Sherlock's oh-so-helpful voice from over her shoulder.

She ignored him, focusing on the other woman. “You shouldn't have done it,” the other woman whined. “The sacrifice was supposed to be at a specific time...”

Molly just glared up at her. “Well, it's done, so you'll just have to get over it,” she snapped, hauling the sheet higher up on her chest and ignoring the rather strangled sounds of amusement coming from Sherlock's direction behind her.

While the other woman spluttered indignantly, Molly turned her glare on Sherlock, still cracking up behind her. “And you! What's so damned funny?”

Chortling so hard he was unable to speak, he pointed toward her...specifically, toward her backside. She glanced down in confusion, then turned a bright shade of red as she realized it was no longer covered by the sheet. She'd been mooning Sherlock the entire time she'd been giving “Her Majesty” the dressing down she so royally deserved.

With an embarrassed huff, Molly yanked the sheet around herself, then turned back to the other woman, belatedly realizing that it might not be a good idea to remove her attention from a potential threat – and one who, at any moment, might decide to call Molly's feeble bluff.

Before she could draw breath to speak again – to demand the key to Sherlock's ankle-cuff – the door opened again.

Great. Just freaking great. It was Auntie Draco and Bose and a very pissed looking Moudi – still covered in soup – and Diplit. Auntie Draco was holding the dagger in one hand and the other close by her side, concealed by her pink robe. “My,” she said, a very satisfied look on her face, “that went well, ladies, wouldn't you say? Exactly according to plan?”

A chorus of agreement came from every cult member's throat – including Queen Night-with-an-n-not-a-k, who'd left off acting huffy and offended and now wore just as smug and self-satisfied a smirk as the other women who'd crowded into the room.

Feeling distinctly outnumbered, Molly found herself backing up until she felt a solid presence behind her. Sherlock had risen to his feet, still naked of course, and his hands rested reassuringly on her shoulders as he said: “Of course. I should have seen it the moment I realized you'd supposedly enticed Molly into your so-called 'cult'. This has been a set up from the start. I was never your true target. Mycroft was.”

“Got it in one, Mr. Holmes,” Auntie Draco replied calmly. “Your brother has been vexing me for many years now, and I must say I'm tired of it. Do give him a message for me when he arrives, will you?”

“What message might that be, Abylene?”

A shocked gasp rose from the crowd, and all eyes turned toward Auntie Draco, Molly's included. She, in fact, was the one who voiced the obvious question: “Sherlock? You know who Auntie Draco is?”

“Lady Abylene Forbes-Tyson, fourth Duchess of Shrewsbury – and Mycroft's former girlfriend,” Sherlock announced. “Although she is not the founder of this cult, she is certainly the guiding force behind it's change in methodology over the past decade. Coincidentally,” he added with an eyeroll, “the exact amount of time it's been since my brother had the good sense to break off relations with her.”

“AHEM!” Auntie Draco...Lady Abylene...whoever the hell she was...broke in angrily, her voice rising with every word. “He didn't break off relations with ME, I broke up with HIM!”

She was clenching the knife tightly in one hand and her face had gone rather red (clashing horribly with her pink hair and matching robe, Molly noted). She took a menacing step forward, and Molly shrank back against Sherlock's lean form, wishing the pair of them had more to defend themselves with than just bare hands and cutting remarks.

“Lie down on the bed, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Hooper,” the older woman said as she came to a stop just out of their combined reach. “And give me that damned sheet.”

“And if we don't?”

“Then I will be forced to use this.” With a dramatic flourish, Auntie Draco produced a syringe from behind her back, while Queen Night-with-an-n-not-a-k inched forward with an intensely interested look on her face, as if she were eager to see the two of them drugged and helpless. 

Molly's hair stirred as Sherlock gave a sigh of capitulation. “Give them the sheet, Molly, and lie down on the bed next to me. If we don't, she'll probably threaten us with imprisonment in a sensory deprivation tank or something equally overwrought.”

Molly reluctantly did as Sherlock advised, handing the sheet to Moudi, even though all she wanted to do was slap the girl's hands away. No, she and Sherlock were clearly outnumbered, and since Mycroft was apparently taking his sweet time in rescuing them, the only thing they could do was cooperate.

BroomyHilda came forth next, holding two pairs of handcuffs and some rope in either hand. She and Bose set to work, instructing Molly to put her arms around Sherlock and for him to do the same to her, then cuffing them so they were embracing one another. Then their legs were tied together, and when they were finished, Molly felt a combination of embarrassment and guilty pleasure at the fact that every inch of Sherlock's body was pressed so firmly against hers.

Oh. My. Including his lovely, once-again-hard prick.

“Comfy, you two? I'm sure it won't be long before dear Mikey arrives to save you,” Auntie Draco said as she leaned over to peer down at her two captives. “And Sherlock, before I forget...” She whipped out a black permanent marker, making her way around the bed so that she was facing his back. Molly watched in puzzlement as the older woman bent down, murmured an insincere apology, and began writing something on the cheeks of Sherlock's arse.

She rose up when she finished – Sherlock having stoically withstood the outrage without once squirming or demanding to know what was being written on his body – and gave the two of them a beatific smile. “Do tell Mycroft I said hello, won't you, Sherlock? And be sure to let him read the message I've left him as well.”

“Delighted,” Sherlock replied through gritted teeth. “Shouldn't you and your group of madwomen be dispersing about now? Unless you'd rather give Mycroft your message in person?”

Auntie Draco tutted and shook her head. “Oh, Sherlock, you're just as bad as your brother, constantly underestimating me. He and his men won't be here for another twenty minutes. Just enough time for you and Molly to continue getting better acquainted with one another – and more than enough time for the ladies and I to vacate the premises. Ta!”

Then she was gone, the others filing out after her, as Molly determined by craning her neck in order to look over her shoulder. Moudi was the last to leave, pausing only to pull her soup-stained robe over her head and exchange it for the one Molly had discarded earlier, muttering the entire time about ungrateful wenches who should be on their knees thanking certain parties for making sure she got what she'd always wanted from a certain Holmes brother.

Just when Molly thought it was all over, Auntie Draco hurried back into the room. “Whoops! Almost forgot!” She brandished the dagger, and Molly tensed, certain that this was the other shoe, the one she'd been waiting for all along. But all the other woman did was stoop down and lay it carefully on the floor next to the door, along with a small key ring. “So your brother doesn't have to try to pick the locks!” she said gaily, and with a laugh, she and her pink hair were finally gone.

“Why did she leave the dagger?” Molly asked Sherlock, once she felt capable of speaking again. 

“Obvious. The key to my ankle restraint is in the pommel,” Sherlock replied, sounding impatient. He squirmed a bit, and Molly felt a flush spread over her entire torso before rising to her cheeks at the sensation. “Boring, actually. We have twenty minutes until my brother's men arrive, if our charming hostess is to be believed, Molly and I'd rather not waste those minutes on trivia, if you don't mind.”

“What would you rather – mmph!”

Molly's question was cut off as Sherlock's lips crushed down on hers in a heated kiss.

When they came up for air, she gasped and stared at him. “Sherlock, we're tied up naked on a bed, handcuffed together, and you think this is a good time to snog?”

His eyes fairly sparkled as they met hers. “Yes, actually,” he said, then silenced her with another kiss, this one even more passionate than the first.

Fifteen minutes later, when the door to their prison burst open for the second – or was it the third? – time that night, it was John Watson who did the bursting.

The expression on his face, Sherlock would admit to Molly later, was absolutely priceless.


	6. Unexpected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly & Sherlock are debriefed by Mycroft...and no, that's not a euphamism! John gets another shock and Mrs. Hudson speaks her mind! Plus a close encounter with one of Molly's neighbors. :)

It was a bit odd, Molly reflected later, when she and Sherlock were on their way to the Baker Street flat he still shared with John, how many of her male acquaintances had now seen her completely naked. Because of course, hard on John's heels – nearly knocking him off his feet, actually, since he'd frozen in the doorway as soon as he realized he was seeing Molly's naked arse being cupped by Sherlock's cuffed hands while the two prisoners snogged furiously – had come Greg Lestrade, and then Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock's brother was the one who managed to retain enough presence of mind to whip off his suit jacket, walk over to the narrow bed holding the two prisoners (who'd broken from their embrace, Sherlock's expression decidedly irked, Molly's mortified), and cover Molly with a murmur of apology for not arriving sooner.

His actions had spurred John and Greg into movement of their own, each mumbling apologies and attempting to look anywhere but at the bound couple. Fortunately their sudden interest in the floor beneath their feet lead to the rapid discover of the key ring and dagger. While Mycroft strolled around the bed and read aloud the message that had been left for him on his brother's posterior (“Missed me again, Mikey!”), Greg donned a pair of latex gloves and busied himself unlocking the handcuffs, while Sherlock instructed him on the proper method for removing the pommel of the knife in order to unlock the ankle-cuff. The dagger came in useful for slicing off the ropes, since BroomyHilda had apparently learned knotmaking in either the Girl Guides or possibly the Royal Navy, and Sherlock declared his interest in preserving them for future study.

Not a single personal item was found in the entire compound, outside of Molly's handbag and the clothes she'd been wearing earlier in the evening. Even her mobile had been returned to her, resting on top of her handbag with a hundred and seventy three unanswered texts messages (mostly from John and her mum) and an overflowing voice message box (same two culprits). 

What followed (after Molly had been allowed the privacy to redress herself and clothing had been procured for Sherlock) was interrogation and debriefing and are-you-certain-that's-all-she-said, the “she” in question being the only one of the cultists Mycroft was really interested in, Lady Abylene/Auntie Draco.

In the end it was Sherlock who finally shut his brother and his incessant questions up by rising abruptly to his feet, grabbing Molly's hand, and announcing, firmly but with an undertone of menace: “That's enough, Mycroft. She's told you everything she knows or at least everything she currently remembers. If during the course of the next few days she recalls anything further, I will be sure to pass it along to you. Now, if you don't mind, Molly and I would very much like to go home.”

An hour later the two of them were safely ensconced in Sherlock's Baker Street flat, where they remained for approximately ten minutes, with John and Molly uncomfortably trying to make conversation while avoiding one another's eyes after Sherlock left the room with a “wait for me, Molly” before vanishing.

He emerged from his bedroom with a small overnight back in one hand and the signs of a quick shower having been taken showing in his still-damp hair and freshly scrubbed face. His borrowed clothing had been replaced by one of his tight button-ups (the aubergine one that always made Molly's mouth water) and a pair of immaculately pressed black trousers, a pair of expensive Italian loafers on his feet. John and Molly stared at him as he walked past them and headed directly for the door, pausing to don his trademark Belstaff and black leather gloves before turning back with an impatient look. “Well, come on, Molly, let's go. I'm sure your neighbor would like you to take your cat back after keeping him for this long.”

“I, um, yes, of course...um, Sherlock?” Molly stammered out.

He gave her another impatient look. “What, Molly?”

“Um, where are you...going?”

He rolled his eyes and swiftly walked back so he was standing right in front of her. “Really, Molly? You have to ask?” He huffed out an exaggerated sigh. “Very well. I am going with you to fetch your cat from your neighbor. Then I am accompanying you to your flat to spend the night, as this – ” he raised up the overnight bag, “ – should have already informed you. Unless you'd rather we continued our previous activities here, with John in the other room? You won't mind if I shag Molly into the mattress while you read the paper, will you, John?” he added with no change in inflection and no pause for breath.

“Uh...”

“No? Fine, then.” Sherlock dropped the bag to the floor with a thump and crossed his arms. “We'll stay. Chinese or Thai for dinner, Molly?”

“Uh...”

He raised an eyebrow as Molly's response echoed John's. “Not hungry, then? Excellent!” He clapped his hands together and beamed at her. “My bedroom's just this way...”

“No, Sherlock!” “I think you're right, I should really get Toby back!”

John and Molly spoke at the same time while Sherlock just stood there and grinned at them. The git. He hefted his overnight bag in his hand and raised one eyebrow at Molly, who'd turned beet red. “So. Not staying here tonight?”

She shook her head, grabbed his hand and mumbled a good-bye to John, remembering at the last second to thank him for coming to their rescue, although she was still unable to meet his eyes.

“Um, yeah, no problem,” he replied. “I'll, ah, see you around, yeah? And, uh, you too, Sherlock, later. Not later tonight, got that, no problem, but uh, just...later.”

oOo

John stared bemusedly as Sherlock and Molly headed out of the flat and down the stairs. What the hell had happened at the cult compound?

On second thought, he had a pretty good idea what had happened…and didn’t want to know any more than he already did. Both Molly and Sherlock were alive and well, and in the interim he’d gotten to know Mycroft’s assistant ‘Anthea’ well enough for her to tell him her real name. He didn’t know why she didn’t like it; there was nothing wrong with Mary.

He just hoped she’d put down the blasted Blackberry when they went on their date this evening.

oOo

Sherlock and Molly practically ran into Mrs. Hudson at the foot of the stairs. She was on her way into her flat, her arms full of carrier bags from Tesco. “Oh, Sherlock!” she exclaimed, allowing the bags to drop the floor with a loud thunk – and the decided sound of something splatting as it burst. She didn't seem to care, too busy hauling Sherlock into her arms for a warm hug, telling how worried she'd been and so glad he was home, and oh, the lovely Dr. Hooper, how wonderful it was that she'd been the one to find Sherlock and get him home intact...

“Not quite intact,” Sherlock muttered into Molly's ear as she was, in turn, embraced by his overly emotional landlady. Molly glared warningly at him over Mrs. Hudson's shoulder, then turned the glare into a hasty smile as Mrs. Hudson stood back, hands on her shoulders, and tutted over how worn out Molly looked. “Oh, such a terrible ordeal for the two of you! Being kidnapped, then Molly having to join some awful cult just to save you – oh, Sherlock, you be sure and tell Mycroft he owes this poor girl a medal! Why, look at her! She's clearly exhausted! Shame on you, Sherlock dragging her back here first instead of taking her home so she can get into bed and get a proper rest!”

“Just what I was about to do, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock interposed hastily, as Molly got redder and redder with the effort to stifle semi-hysterical giggles at the older woman's unintended double entendres. She didn't dare meet Sherlock's eyes, at least not until he'd solemnly reassured Mrs. Hudson that getting Molly into bed was his highest priority at the moment, and that he planned to stay with her to make sure she hadn't been traumatized by the things that she'd witnessed while in the cult.

“Good, Sherlock, nice to see you willing to show the proper gratitude to someone who's done so much to help you! Have a nice night, you two!” she warbled as Sherlock gathered up her bags – including one dripping with what looked like tomato sauce – and bundled them and his landlady into her flat.

Molly completely lost it the second they were in the back of the cab, trying and failing to stifle her giggles as Sherlock had to resort to shouting their destination to the cabby, who looked somewhere between alarmed and amused at his fare's apparently inebriated date.

She managed to calm herself by the time they arrived at her flat, but only by keeping her eyes safely glued to the window. She could feel Sherlock’s smirk the entire ride, and knew that if she looked at him even once she’d completely lose it again.

She headed to the front door while Sherlock paid the cabby, unlocking it and waiting until she felt his hand on her waist (Sherlock’s not the cabby’s, as she confirmed by glancing over her shoulder – it paid to be safe, after all!) to push it fully open.

Once inside the front hall, with the door safely shut behind them, Sherlock pressed her up against it and proceeded to snog Molly breathless. She heard the faint ‘clunk’ of his overnight bag hitting the floor, then felt his hands sliding beneath her jumper, tugging impatiently at her blouse until skin met skin – oooh, no, not skin meeting skin, no, he still had on his black leather gloves, and they felt like sin incarnate as they ghosted across her flesh.

She gasped at the sensation, and Sherlock pulled back to smile devilishly at her. “Have I found one of your kinks, Molly? A bit of a leather fetish, hm?”

“Not until now,” she practically growled at him as she yanked his head down for another searing kiss. 

“Molly? Is that you?”

With a gasp of embarrassment Molly pulled out of the kiss and peered past Sherlock’s shoulder – he refused to budge even when she tried to shove him out of the way – and met the startled eyes of her upstairs neighbor, Mrs. Lavender. “Oh, um, hi,” she said weakly. “I’m back, thanks for watching Toby for me!”

“Oh, it was no problem, dear,” the older woman replied cheerily. “You and your young man had best get up to your flat, though; Mr. and Mrs. Wilson will be home any minute!” Then she turned to her post box, inserted the key and began going through her mail. Sherlock finally moved and Molly once again found herself fighting down giggles as she took his hand in hers and moved for the stairs. “Oh, and Molly?” Mrs. Lavender added.

She paused and turned to her still-smiling neighbor. “Um, yes?”

With a wink and a nod at Sherlock, she said, “I’ll keep Toby for the night, dear. Come and get him tomorrow afternoon.” A pause. “Or whenever. No rush.”

Blushing, Molly stammered out a thanks. Then it was Sherlock tugging on her hand, practically pulling her up the stairs as he took them two at a time to Molly’s second-floor flat.

Fortunately Molly still had her keys in her hand, so there was no fumbling them out of her pocketbook, although it was certainly the first time she’d done so while someone whispered rather filthy suggestions in her ear the entire time. 

The third time she tried to get the key in the hole and completely missed, she turned to glare up at him. “Sherlock!” she hissed. “I can’t concentrate when you do that!”

“Good,” he replied, his voice a shade deeper than usual. “Because I wish to see how much of an incoherent mess I can turn you into with just my voice.”

Molly stared up at him, mouth open, keys dangling half-forgotten in her hand. Well, she thought dazedly as Sherlock brushed his lips against her ear and whispered something about his tongue needing a better work-out than speaking or mere kissing could provide, she might have created a monster, but there was no way in hell she was running from this ‘Creature’!

Sherlock continued to whisper into her ear as Molly clung to him with her free hand, feeling her knees literally trembling as his lips brushed against her sensitive flesh with every hot, filthy, word that left his mouth. She distantly felt his hand on hers, tugging the keys out of her slack grasp, then heard him immediately hitting the lock on the very first try – without even looking, the bloody showoff – and unlocking her door.

Then they were inside and the door was closed and locked behind them and Sherlock was tossing Molly’s keys into the bowl where she usually kept them and that. Was. It.

She dropped her handbag to the floor, her coat and shoes landing next to it. Sherlock had unbuttoned his Belstaff and unwound his scarf; Molly snatched the piece of fabric out of his hands, threw it down to join her belongings, and pressed herself against him, the warmth radiating from his body matching her own. She reached up and pulled his head down to plant a kiss on his lips, her tongue demanding entry and her fingers not the slightest bit gentle as she tugged impatiently at those glorious dark curls of his.

She had every intention of doing all the things she’d ever fantasized about doing with Sherlock Holmes – well, not all tonight, certainly, especially not the ones involving the path lab or the morgue (would he think she was twisted for wanting to do it on an autopsy table, a clean one of course, or next to his favorite microscope in the lab?) – but there were quite a few that involved her hands and his hair and the placement of his mouth over a certain portion of her anatomy…

“Shower,” she gasped out, pulling abruptly out of his arms as he gave an annoyed growl. “I haven’t had time…you have to let me shower, Sherlock!”

“Very well,” he replied, allowing his coat to join hers on the floor, drawing off his gloves one finger at a time – but instead of dropping them, sliding them over Molly’s shoulder in a teasing motion. “The one I took at Baker Street was too brief; a long, hot soak sounds…perfect.”

His voice was a velvety purr and his gloves were soft as butter against the parts of Molly’s skin that weren’t covered by clothes; she gave a bit of a growl of her own as she grabbed his hand and pulled him determinedly along to her small bathroom.


	7. Satisfied

Molly was out of her clothes and under the spray faster than Sherlock could finish removing his clothing, which would have gone faster if he'd done as she had and just let them drop to the floor as soon as he removed them. But no, he had to fold them and hang them and tuck his socks into his shoes, which meant Molly was already done shampooing her hair and rinsing it off by the time he joined her.

She should have been used to seeing him naked by now, but no, it still sent butterflies fluttering in her stomach and sped up her heart and dried out her mouth as he stepped into the bath with her. When he turned to reach for her scrubber, however, Molly couldn't help the giggle that escaped her lips at the sight of his ink-bedecked (firm and lovely) backside. “Missed me again, Mikie,” she read aloud, and Sherlock huffed and straightened himself.

He craned his neck around with a scowl to try and get a better look at his desecrated arse. “It wouldn’t come off,” he said, sounding more than a bit put out. “Bloody Mycroft and his exes. She’s the reason he kept telling me caring wasn’t an advantage, you know. Supposedly to keep me from making the same mistakes he’d made.” He pulled a sour face. “Not my fault he attracts all the crazy ones,” he muttered, leaning down to sniff appreciatively at Molly's hair, changing the subject with his next words. “If they'd had your brand of shampoo and conditioner at the compound, I'd have known it was you as soon as you entered the room.”

“That's, um, good to know,” Molly said faintly. It took her a minute to realize she was just standing there, hogging the hot water and staring at Sherlock as he smirked down at her, instead of cleaning herself off or conditioning her hair. She was never going to get any of it done, either, if he kept looking at her like that, his eyes dark with desire and lips curled and the water dripping off his cheekbones and.... “Oh, sod it,” she muttered, dropping the soap and throwing her arms around his neck. She had to raise herself on the tips of her toes, but met his lips for a very satisfying kiss while the water continued to pour down her body.

Sherlock was the one who broke the kiss, tutting at her as he knelt to pick up the soap. Molly's indrawn breath alerted him to the rather provocative position that put him in, and he smiled knowingly at her, his head at just the right level to... “I deduced that you wished to ask me to do something to you, something very specific, Molly, while we were still prisoners,” he said in his deepest, most sensuous purr. “Would you care to ask me now?"

As he spoke his free hand trailed up her right thigh, stopping at her hip. His fingers were only centimeters away from her sex, and suddenly it wasn't just the water that was making her so very, very wet. Molly licked her lips, tried to speak, licked them again when nothing came out, then reached down and once again grabbed for the soap. “Sherlock,” she squeaked, closing her eyes tightly shut and trying to remember to breathe, “would you give me just five minutes? Please? Or else I'm likely to drown you. Not on purpose, of course!” she added hastily, knowing she was babbling but unable to stop herself. “It's just...the spray,” she gestured vaguely at the shower head. “And you, down there, and um, the angle would be...Oh!”

The last word was startled out of her as Sherlock reached up, grabbed her by the waist and somehow managed to turn the two of them so that suddenly the spray was hitting his back and she was up against the far end of the shower, the cold tile against her backside, the bar of soap sliding out of her suddenly lax fingers to slip to the bottom of the tub. “Is this better?”

She nodded dumbly as he studied her body. She was braced with her hands against the tile, both legs as far apart as they could get in the narrow confines of the tub, and her frowned as he glanced first at her feet, then at the rim of the tub. The frown turned into a grin as he grabbed her right foot by the ankle and wordlessly urged her to rest her foot on the rim. “Much better!” he exclaimed, sounding ridiculously pleased with himself. “Now to see if John's extensive porn collection had any actual instructional value – do be sure to tell me if I'm doing anything wrong, Molly, won't you?”

Without waiting for a response – as if she could make one with her brain turned completely to oatmeal – he reached for her legs, running his fingers up her thighs until his thumbs were brushing across her opening. Molly found herself arching her back a bit, eyes fluttering closed and her right foot raising itself to rest heel up, in order to give Sherlock more room to maneuver.

He hummed his approval of her movement as he continued to study her 'lady parts' as if he'd never seen anything so fascinating – or as if he were attempting to puzzle out how best to proceed. Just as Molly was going to make a few suggestions – just to get him started, of course – he leaned his head forward, thumbed her open a bit wider, and swiped his tongue across her labia.

“Oh!” Molly couldn't help the exclamation that burst from her lips. Nor could she help the way her eyes snapped shut or her hands suddenly dug themselves into Sherlock's wet locks, or the tremors that passed over her legs as she attempted to keep herself upright while his tongue continued to explore her ever-dampening folds. Since she was no longer directly under the spray her natural lubrication wasn't washing away, which was good good good so fucking good...

Whoops. She'd moaned that last part out loud; she opened one eye and looked down at Sherlock, who'd paused in his ministrations, to find him looking back up at her with a furrowed brow. She opened the other eye and gave him a weak smile, started to stammer out an apology, when his brow cleared, his eyes sparkled with what she would definitely have to call 'glee'...and he immediately lowered his mouth back where it had been, this time licking and sucking her clit while first one, then two of his long, elegant fingers thrust into her.

She had to tell him to ease up a bit when he started getting too enthusiastic, but once he curled his fingers inside her and slowed his rhythmic movements another gasp escaped her lips, followed swiftly by another spate of swear words she never recalled using before. But then again, she'd never had Sherlock Holmes go down on her before, so today was a day for first of all kinds.

Apparently he enjoyed her potty mouth, because his lips and tongue and fingers went into a bit of a frenzy as soon as the filthy words left her mouth. Or was it that he liked the way she was tugging on his hair, her fingers digging into his scalp? If he didn't like it, she thought hazily, he'd have told her to stop by now, right? Right. So clearly he liked hair-pulling, good to know. Good, good, good to know....ooooohhhhh God!

Where her thoughts went, so went her voice. “Oh, God, Sherlock, yes, right there, please, oh God, oh God, ohgodohgodohgodohgod....”

Molly's attempts at speech sputtered into incoherent shrieks and moans of pure, unadulterated pleasure as Sherlock's abundantly talented mouth brought her over the precipice, pulling an orgasm from her she hadn't quite expected. Well, not this soon, anyway. Certainly not this powerful.

Still, she thought as Sherlock rose to his feet, a very self-satisfied smirk on his face, his hands on her hips pretty much the only thing keeping her from collapsing into a puddle, it was just as well, since the hot water couldn't last much longer.

She remained lost in a haze of pleasure as Sherlock turned her back around so that she was once again under the spray. Then he was soaping her, scrubbing her with her loofah with an intense look in his eyes that turned a simple tool for cleaning herself into one of the most erotic things she'd ever felt touching her body.

As he shut the water off – after thoroughly inspecting her for any signs of remaining soap – Sherlock brushed his lips against Molly's ear and purred, “So, Doctor Hooper, how would you rate my first attempt at orally administered sexual contact?”

“A-adequate,” she stuttered out, then smirked at the scowl that instantly formed on his face. “It was your first try, after all, and not everyone can be good at every...um...oohh,” she moaned, whatever she'd been attempting to say completely lost from her mind as he lowered his still-scowling lips to her neck and began nipping and sucking at the skin in a very sensitive spot. Right below the ear he'd been whispering so seductively into, as a matter of fact.

“Adequate?” he murmured before running his tongue along the shell of her ear, eliciting another moan from her throat. Her hands were on his shoulders, digging in as she held on for dear life, legs once again threatening to give out on her. “You rate that experience as merely 'adequate'?”

Some stubborn little devil kept her from babbling out that it was the best 'orally administered sexual contact' she'd ever experienced. Instead she simply said, “You heard me. So what are you going to do about it, Mr. Holmes?”

God, who knew using their surnames so formally could be such a turn on? It was interesting to discover a kink Molly had never known she had, but she nearly came a second time when Sherlock growled in her ear, “Well, Doctor Hooper, I suppose I shall just have to put in some practice, then, won't I. To improve my standing.”

Molly giggled. “Or your kneeling. Whatever position works for you!”

Sherlock glowered but made no further response, other than to open the shower curtain and toss a towel at her. He selected a fresh one from the shelf over the toilet for himself, dried himself off, waited impatiently for Molly to do the same, then tugged her by the hand into her bedroom.

A blissful half-hour later, Molly conceded that perhaps she'd been a bit harsh in her initial assessment of his skills, that he was a fast learner, that the Earth revolved around the sun, and anything else he thought to question her about. She'd already had more sex with Sherlock in the past twelve hours than she'd had with anyone else in the past three years, but every time she thought, _well, this is all I can handle_...he looked at her a certain way, pupils blown back so there was very little of the blue-green of his irises showing, and she thought, _fuck it_ and continued to allow him to explore his newly awakened sexuality any way he pleased.

Luckily for her, 'any way he pleased' pleased her, too. Very, very much.

The sun was rising – or very possibly setting again – when she finally begged off. “God, Sherlock, I haven't slept in...how long has it been since we left the compound? Since before then. Don't get me wrong, I'm really pleased that we've...that you've...all this,” she ended incoherently as she waved one hand to indicate the two of them (now reclining beneath the covers in her bed). 

They'd made love twice since leaving the shower and her body was delightfully sore. She'd never had so many orgasms in so short an amount of time – hell, if she thought back over her entire sexual existence, she doubted she'd had this many orgasms, period. Certainly not given to her by one partner.

But right now she was exhausted, tender, and ready to curl up in bed, preferably wrapped in the embrace of a certain, no longer virginal Consulting Detective, and sleep for, oh, about a week.

Luckily for her, he was wiling to concede that sleep wouldn't be a bad thing at the moment, and Molly did, indeed, find herself with Sherlock's lanky form wrapped around hers, asleep almost before she finished adjusting her pillow.

She smiled to herself as she settled into his embrace. There was going to be some Very Serious Discussions about their future, and soon, but not today. Sherlock Holmes was sleeping in Molly Hooper's bed, and she had no intentions of wasting a single second of their time together worrying about what Sherlock might do next.

“With any luck, it'll be me,” she murmured to herself with a small giggle. Then sleep claimed her, and she was out for the next eight and a half hours, to be awakened by the feel of Sherlock's lips on her neck and his hands teasing her nipples while his erection pressed against her backside.

All in all, Molly Hooper decide as she turned to offer him a kiss – and better access to her breasts – it was the most pleasant way she'd woken up in a long time.

And as Sherlock informed her after they'd made love, it was the way he intended to wake her up every day for the rest of their lives, barring any important cases on his part or double shifts on her part.

Which was, fate would have it, exactly as it turned out.

The. End. 


End file.
